Heart Stone
by YaIJustwalkedtoCamelot
Summary: Before he was Sherlock of 22 Baker Street he was THE Sherlock- dogsbody, physician, part-time cook, and sometimes the king's personal sleuth. Enter Watson.


**05, December 1334, ****Greenwich Palace**

The scene in which our story begins is that compared to a blank canvas of some renowned painter. The bright dawn morning is nothing more than a single hurried stroke upon high. You would be clear to note that much like the drips of excess paint rolling down, the predawn orange light was steadily leaking out over the land. The painter of the world, God to some, Allah to others, some may even credit man to the job, seemed to be in nothing but a rush in this particular place at this exact time. The grass was patches of greens and brown here and there with some patches much gone as if the painter's hand skipped. The cattails and lilies and other weedy and blooming flowers were bowed to the wind that crept up slightly like a thief in the night. Trees seemed to be put at random plots down the windy dirt road that led, to the south, a humble village, and to the east, where our story will take place, to Greenwich Palace. The painter, alas, must have been confused I say on what a road was because the road leading up to the place was neither smooth nor rock nor hilly nor straight, but rather all in one. This being said, it was a hard travel for the horses and the carts or the sometimes unadorned man or women who had to take an expedition the residence at the end of the road.

The Palace was another matter entirely. Where the painter was impetuous on the landscape he took great attentiveness and care on creating the place. He pushed the great structure into a single man, and from that thought, with all the details planned out, came Greenwich palace. Of course, like many projects from great painters there came a time when they tired of the original design and simply to put: tore down the walls. This grand hall looked out onto the wide wild river of Thames which gave it a tranquil look at first glance. With her towering buttress, the lush array of gardens, the great airy windows it looked to be a place of love, a flicker of hope, and strong-willed. It was where kings were born, children convinced, and vows taken (though this was much, much latter). Yet, appearances can be deceitful as we all know, for in these halls rumors were spread like wild fires, hearts chased one another in illicit pursuit and death could come unbidden with a single word.

In the great hall with its high celling, is where the first words of our story begins and the words that would, in time, layout history long after all its inhabits were dead. The words spoken were from the lustful mouth of newly wed- for the second time- King Henry the Eighth. The man in front of him was a dogsbody. The only one left in the whole kingdom it seemed, that wanted to DO the dirty word handed to him and enjoyed it. He was the physician, the undertaker, part time assistant cook, every so often master spy, and most wanted man without a noble title in the king's circle that the women would swoon over. He was the catch all man with airs of stubbornness and a shifty look to the eyes that told you he knew what you were thing and that he knew more then you could ever know. He was looking at the king languishing on his covered throne watching every movement and counting out the seconds until the king would flick his index finger and was right on every time. The man was well groomed for someone of his station with close cropped hair, shaved face, and a smell of freshness about him that a lot of people, even the king, lacked. His clothing was nothing but a ragged long shirt, with a tunic over it and some hose and boots. Nothing fancy that would get in way of his work. He noticed with a bored disappear that the king had ceased his finger flicking and was now sitting quite stock in the chair and not talking. The catch-all-man pulled his mind away from the interesting things and focused now on his king. He schooled his features into a most loving patronage.

"Did you hear what I said, Sherlock?" Henry asked his mouth pulling down in the left corner.

Sherlock Holmes had indeed listened to the king for the first minute or three before he got tired of the talk when he found it wasn't to his likings. Yet, he was smart enough to not let this king know this. He nodded his head, "Yes, sire."

Henry stared at him for an infinitesimal of silence and Sherlock, unlike most of those that stood where he stood, did not break his gaze from the flamboyant king. Let him see me for who I am and not a petty speck he'd have us be in his lavish playground, Sherlock let his body say as he puffed his chest out and held his ground. I am my own man in this hellish kingdom you would so abusingly call Heaven on earth.

The King found whatever he was searching for, smiled leaning back into his seat, "Good. Good. Now onto the reason I called you here. I have picked you a beneficiary."

This took Sherlock by surprise and he was man who did not act well to any and all revelations that he in turn did not already know. Why it was such a thing, a surprise, which stolen his own father away. He had been at the ripe age of eleven between childhood and coming into his own name. He lived in content enough housing on the edge of the moor with all its thatching and plush-top comforts. He had his schedule set out from him by his father who was a special interest to the King when it came to his scientific findings or when his father's brain latched onto something new and otherwise unworldly. He would wake in the mornings at dawn, dress, eat, then by ten he would be out at the farm a couple stone throws away from the house to help with whatever his father made him to that day (Mr. Holmes believed in hard work and remunerations), then his schooling with his father until lunch which would be cooked by the silent man who ran the kitchens, then up to dinner he would study in his many books, then dinner, after that the rest of the day was his up until he was called to bed. But after such a normal day then normal night for the young Sherlock, he was awoken by his own body the next day when the sun was well shinning into his windows. His father, he had come to find, without any reasons, without any notice, had died in his sleep while Sherlock was dreaming sweet dreams. It was then the young Holmes decided he indeed did not like surprises and like things that were expected and that had an answer to them right after the question was posed.

Coming back to the hall Sherlock was caught frozen like a kitchen boy stealing sweet meats from the pan. Losing all sense of human speech the poor man was only able to say with as much dignity then he could muster, "Sire to what I owe such a crude dismissal?"

He knew he made a mistake a soon as he saw the King's eye flash and his skin turn red. Everyone knew of Henry the 8th fury but no body as seen his true ire unless they had been at the council in which his late wife Kathrine of Argon had begged in front him in front of almost his whole court some of Rome itself. It was Sherlock's first time seeing it directed at him and he thought it was almost amusing that the person he dealt with monsters for was in fact becoming one in front of his very eyes and by his own tongue no less.

"You dare mock the King of England? You? A no one whom I have taken from the leopardess streets and clothed and fed and made my own dogsbody! Most men would eat their own shit for your position if asked. You should be over joyed I have even considered you an heir to take over your misfortune work when you go rot in your grave."

So then it was a present and not a dismissal. Sherlock did not like the idea of some individual crowding him while he worked and occupying his space. He was a lone man and the work he did required sometimes as much loneliness as one could bear. Yet, he knew he had to change his tune, sing a different song and quick before he lost his favor with the king and ended up lower than the devil himself.

"I apologize, my grace. I spoke out of turn without seeing the wonderment of your gift you have given me. I live to serve the king and was afraid I had dissatisfied you somehow which would be my deepest regret. Someone like me can only praise you for thinking me worthy of an apprentice."

Henry smiled again but the light had not dimmed in his eyes, "Such sweet words you sing, Sherlock. Do not think I shall forget, but I accept your apologies…this time. The man in question will be coming from London. He has a degree in some medicine and has just came back from serving the English army in the Scottish rabble. He will coming in the morning during morning court. I expect you to be here."

"May I inquire his name sir?" Sherlock asked knowing how much it could be to handle a return man from war.

"Watson, my dear Sherlock. John H. Watson."


End file.
